


Trick or Treat

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Barely Legal, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Halloween, Loss of Virginity, Misogyny, Parent/Child Incest, Reluctant, Rites of Passage, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, at best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: Jessie's friends outgrew all the juvenile parts of the holiday years ago and moved on to more adult celebrations, but Jessie is not so sure she's ready to give her dad his most coveted treat.Tonight, though, the decision is out of her hands.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 121





	Trick or Treat

“You’re not really going out tonight?”

It was technically a statement, but Kendra’s voice trailed up doubtfully over the final word, making it into a question. Jessie flushed and resettled her school bag on her shoulder.

“I was going to take Emmy around.”

“Oh my god, Jess, she’s ten! They take _themselves_ around at that age.”

Jessie shook her head, finding firmer ground in her denial.

“No, Dad won’t let us go alone.”

“So your mom can take her. Or your dad, if he’s going to be like that! Jessie, we’re graduating this year. Don’t you think you’re a little old for doing Halloween that way?”

Jessie knew that nobody else her age in their group went out anymore. Not like she was going to. Not with the whole elaborate costume and carving a pumpkin and everything else. They might wear a mask and take a bag, but they would almost invariably end up under the bleachers at the school mixing drinks and getting bright-orange sick all over the grass of the football field. That was what Kendra was asking her to do. Kendra wanted her to come out like a teenager, and have a really adult kind of fun. But ever since she had come to understand what Dad expected of her, Jessie had been reaching with increasing desperation for some proof that she wasn’t ready to be seen as an adult. Not like he wanted to see her.

“About that age now, aren’t you, sweetheart?” he had reflected two summers ago. They’d been in the backyard, very private and safe. Jessie was wearing a two piece. Nothing daring, Dad never allowed daring. But her midriff was visible, if only just, and his eyes had darkened as they rested on that strip of skin. Her arm had flown instinctively to cover it, because it was unfair of her to tempt Dad, but even so her heartbeat had picked up and she had blurted out her denial.

“I’m not . . . yet.”

“No?” His eyes had trailed down the length of her form. “Well. Maybe not. But very nearly, you have to admit.”

So she had made sure to highlight how she was not yet grown up enough. She hung her stocking up at Christmas, she pointed out, and she still went trick or treating!

Something about this last line seemed to really impress him, so it had been the one she clung to the following October, and this, the one after that. Yes, she was going to finish high school this year, and there was not even the technicality of the date on her birth certificate to hide behind any longer if anybody called her an adult, but there was still her costume, still trick or treating, and she was not ready, she was so _sure_ she was not ready, that she needed even the flimsiest proof of it that she could get.

So she shrugged off Kendra’s intermingled exasperation and scorn, and tried to change the subject on the bus. Kendra put her earbuds in instead, so that gave Jessie a nice stretch of silence between school and her stop. She got off with Emmy, who was bubbling over with excitement and oblivious to Jessie’s deepening apprehension the closer they got to the house.

Mom was in the kitchen and the smell of their early, pre-outing supper was already heavy in the air.

“Homework?” she called, and both girls denied having any such thing. “You’re sure?” she said warningly. “You know your father will check.”

“Not on Halloween, Mom!” Emmy laughed, charmed by her parent’s lack of faith. “Nobody does homework on Halloween, so they never give it.” Then she rushed upstairs to examine her costume, and Jessie drifted into the kitchen to see if Mom needed help.

“Not at the moment, thanks, love,” Mom said. “Got it well in hand.” She stepped back from the stove and smiled fondly. “I washed your costume. It’s all laid out upstairs for you. Last year for it, hmm?”

Jessie nodded.

“Yup.” She hesitated, then said “Mom. Do you think . . .”

But how to ask, exactly? Was there a way? She knew she couldn’t put it off forever. Probably the latest she could bargain for was Christmas. The last stocking hung, milk and cookies for Santa, and then . . . womanhood by New Year. Mom, seeming to understand the direction her thoughts had taken, sighed and reached out to brush a tendril of hair back from Jessie’s eyes.

“He’s been very patient with you,” she said, which Jessie knew was true. “Not every man would be.”

Jessie nodded, downcast.

“I know. Just . . .”

“Yes, of course,” Mom said, as though Jessie had found exactly the words to express herself. “It won’t be easy. I don’t pretend it will. But that’s the first time anyway, Jess. It seems like such a big event in your head, but once you’re past the first time you’ll find it isn’t something so ominous. You might even learn to enjoy it.”

Jessie assumed Mom would not say so if it weren’t possible, but it seemed pretty unlikely. Nothing he’d had her do so far had been very fun. He had come to her room a couple times, just letting her get used to his weight on the side of her bed, his hand on her breast at first, then, lately, between her legs. She’d been ashamed of her desire to shrink away and scared of his reaction if she had given into the urge, so she had lain stiff and unresponsive under his touch.

It had not been enjoyable.

“Maybe,” she said.

“That’s my girl,” Mom said soothingly, and turned to check the progress on her sauce. “Go on upstairs and tell Emmy to come down, will you? If you’re planning to get pumpkins carved before supper, you should start now. I want to get this food into you before you go out tonight. None of that sugar on an empty stomach foolishness for my girls.”

So Jessie summoned Emmy to join her on the back porch and they carved their pumpkins. Mom appeared periodically, ostensibly to applaud but really to fretfully observe Emmy’s somewhat concerning lack of inhibition with the blade, and the smell of pumpkin and the ache of her arm as she scraped out the guts were kind of a distant, painful comfort for Jessie. Like these were their own kind of shield, for as long as they could last.

They put the newly-born Jack O'Lanterns on the front porch and cleaned up their mess just in time for Mom to call them to wash for supper, and sat down to eat at what really did feel like a ridiculously early hour.

Emmy had her wig on already, that fluffy titian cloud of hair she had grabbed when upstairs to wash, and the tall sparkling crown, and she was wiggling with visible impatience to _will_ the meal done so she could run up and get into her dress. Mom took pity on them at last and released them both to change.

They’d be some of the oldest kids out at this hour, because Dad was very firm that they should be home before dark. Emmy did not chafe at the restriction. She was bouncing up the stairs in front of Jessie, taking them two at a time, or trying to, and not quite managing it.

“Bet I’m done first!” she declared, and even though Emmy’s dress was a giant sparkling pink pouf of a thing and Jessie’s was a demure gingham pinafore requiring much less of a struggle, Jessie did not take the bet.

Instead she disappeared into her room, and took her time. Let Emmy rush headlong into the evening. She was going to savour this, her last Halloween at home. Going to enjoy the crisp feeling of the little white blouse as she buttoned it up . . . though, she realized, she could not quite button it _all_ the way up. Her cheeks flushed as she saw that there was no way to secure the top two buttons over her chest without them promptly popping free.

She left them undone, resolving to find a safety pin as soon as possible, and turned to the little gingham pinafore. It was blue and white, simple and sweet, and she anticipated with some pleasure how she was sure it would look . . . until she turned to the mirror and saw the result for herself.

The skirt was much shorter than she remembered when she had tried it on. It had previously reached her knees, but now barely came to her mid-thigh. And although it had never been baggy, it had certainly not fit her so snugly. Her breasts swelled enticingly over the top of it, bared by the unbuttoned neck of her blouse and forced upward by the tension of the pinafore bodice.

She stared at herself in blank horror, struggling to understand what had gone wrong. She couldn’t possibly have grown this much! She must have bought the wrong size, or somebody had done something to it to—

All at once Mom’s casual aside returned, echoing, ominous, haunting.

_Washed it._

Mom had washed her costume, and now . . . well, now it was a better fit for Emmy. Jessie was still staring at herself, the impossible lewdness of her frame, the ripe plumpness of her breasts forced up, the way the tiny skirt fluffed out, how bending just slightly at the waist was sure to bare her bottom below it, when Emmy called out that she was ready, she had won, and she would be waiting downstairs.

Jessie could not even bring herself to answer.

She couldn’t go out like this. She would never be _permitted_ to go out like this, which meant she couldn’t go at all. It was too late to get another costume. Unless . . . maybe a bed sheet? She looked over at her own bed, and reluctantly dismissed the deep purple of the sheets as inescapably unghostlike. She might be able to persuade Mom to let her have an old one, though. She started for the door, full of hope . . . then dropped back abruptly as it swung in of its own accord.

Her father stood on the other side.

She put her hand up, instinctively, to cover herself but he had already seen. She saw the moment his eyes landed on her, the heartbeat afterward as he registered what he had seen, and heard the death knell of her painstaking resistance and delay in the long, slow exhalation that followed.

“Well,” he said. “Look at my little girl.” And he followed his own instruction, his gaze warm and dark and appreciative. “All grown up.”

Jessie bowed her head, accepting his verdict. Even if she told him she was going to get a sheet . . . there was no way. No way he’d let her go out in this, no way he’d let her go on pretending that this was not her body, that it was not, as she had seen so clearly in the mirror, ready for everything he had waited so patiently to do to it.

She twisted her fingers together, still staring down at her glittering ruby-red shoes, as Dad stood to one side and put out a hand, summoning her into the hallway.

She followed meekly in his shadow to the top of the stairs and stood there beside him while he called down into the foyer,

“Emmy, princess, you look lovely. Your mother will be taking you out tonight. Jessie is staying home with me.”

Emmy looked up in polite confusion, but Mom’s head snapped up quickly, and she looked from Dad to Jessie, then back to Dad.

“Of course,” she said, a little too brightly. “Oh, how fun for all of us.” She reached for her coat, then hesitated. “We’ll be gone . . . an hour?”

Dad smiled, and looked down to Jessie, standing by his side.

“You’ll be gone for two.”

“Yes, of course,” Mom murmured, and without any further exchange she and Emmy were out the door. Then it was just Jessie, in her too-tight, too-small Halloween costume, alone in the upstairs hallway with her dad.

* * *

“I must say,” Dad confessed, “this was a most unexpected surprise.” He smiled fondly at her face, lifting one thick dark plait from her shoulder and settling it onto her back. “I had no idea . . . but then, maybe you meant to keep me in the dark. Wanted to make it a treat? Very appropriate,” he twinkled, “given the holiday.”

Jessie smiled faintly, weakly, and tried to nod.

“It . . . I didn’t . . .” she clutched her hands in front of her to stop them trembling. “I’m glad you like it.”

He was seated on the end of the bed in the guest room. He had led her there, after Mom left with Emmy. _Queen bed_ , Jessie thought, distantly. It made more sense than hers. And of course they could not do this in his bed that he shared with Mom. That would be rude, somehow. So it would be here.

His knees were spread slightly apart, and he had drawn her to stand between them. He held her hands warmly in his, searching her face a moment longer.

“I do, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I like it very much.”

Then he lifted his hands to her breasts. She trembled under his touch, but did not resist. It would never do to resist. Dad wouldn’t like it. She let him squeeze them, let him find the nipples through the fabric of her dress, and rub them roughly with the pads of his thumbs. She screwed her eyes shut when his grip tightened.

She could bear it. She _would_ bear it. Mom was right, it was only that it was the first time that made it strange. She would let him have his way in everything, he would make her a woman and then it would get easier after that.

It _had_ to get easier after that.

Dad was lifting her breasts. Drawing them out of the blouse that barely contained them and the bodice that lifted them up like an offering, so they rested bare and plump between the straps of her pinafore, squeezed together, round and sweet. He smiled, and pinched the nipples so that she yelped and tears came into her eyes. He laughed warmly, and bent to suck each bright red, blushing tip in turn.

“There,” he chuckled. “Kissed them better.”

She tried to smile at him, and he slapped her breast so it flamed and bounced and stung.

“Thank me,” he said.

“Thank you,” she blurted, and he smiled.

“There’s my girl. I knew you would take to it, Jess. Not much to worry about after all, is there?” He drew her closer, his hands roaming over her waist, skimming her backside, and lifting her skirt. “It’s what you’re made for.”

She tried to stand still as he stroked her, but couldn’t help giving a little squirm when his fingers found their way into her panties and touched her gently on the softly-fuzzed nether lips that had so captured his focus these past few weeks.

He had touched her there maybe a dozen times by now, sometimes light and brief, but more lately with firm, broad palm, cupping the soft swell of her until her chest tightened with the fear of what must surely come when he tired of the wait.

What was coming now.

He was not in too much of a hurry just now. He petted her a long moment, letting her settle under his touch, before taking the waistband of her panties and drawing them down.

“Turn around sweetheart,” he said, and she obeyed, waves of cold and heat and nausea rolling through her all the while. “Bend over—that’s a good girl. Hands on your toes.”

She had been right about the skirt. Bent over, she could feel it raise until her bottom was bare. Dad’s hand settled fondly on it, squeezing one cheek, then giving a firm, evaluative slap.

She quivered, but stayed still.

“Good,” he murmured, and again spanked her, so she sucked in her breath, but fought to remain in the position he had ordained. The heat and pain flaring in her backside were a distraction from her fear, so that she almost welcomed the spanking until it terminated abruptly in a finger placed between her labia, dragged roughly up and down, searching—and he did not hesitate, on finding what he sought, to force his finger directly in.

She whined and writhed, which earned her, immediately, a slap on the arse that showed her exactly how gentle he’d been up til now.

“None of that,” he said sharply.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried . . . I’m sorry.”

“Mmm. You should be. Now keep still.”

She fought her every instinct to avoid him as he pressed his finger deeper, up to the knuckle, so that she was gasping and flinching and fighting the urge to break free of his demand on her. She had known it would go there, of course. Knew it in the technical sense, when Dad had started to teach her what her body was for, when Mom had confirmed that yes, this would be expected of her, that Dad had every right to ask it and she would be expected to submit.

But knowing what was coming and _feeling_ it there, inside her, were two worlds apart.

She let him have his place in her, though. Let his finger retreat, then re-enter, thrusting slow and purposeful to the core of her, against her every instinct that sought to rebel. He had been so patient, she reasoned. He could have demanded this at any time, but he’d been so good to wait. She wasn’t fair to him, making him wait. She had to make it up to him now, to let him see it had been okay to trust her reluctance, and repay his patience with proof of her readiness and growth.

So she tried to find a balance, a response, to his rhythm. Gently rocked her hips back to meet him, and took his finger as deeply as she could. He smoothed an approving hand over her backside, and she glowed warmly at the unspoken praise.

There! Maybe Mom was right. Maybe all it took to get used to it was time and a little—

The second finger breached her entrance and she shrieked.

“Fuck, Jessica!” her father snarled, and slapped her, _hard_ , right across her labia. She screamed again, and he grabbed her waist, turned her around and forced her face-down onto the bed. His palm cracked like fire across her ass, then he rammed his hand between her legs, so she spread them apart, and let him spank her there instead.

She wept her regret into her arms as he slapped her, as he beat her pussy into a flaming bright point of pain and contrition, accepting the punishment as her due.

She’d screamed when he wanted her to take it nicely. She could see the error in that. So he spanked her, and she was sorry, and cried to show him he was sorry until he believed her and finished.

When he was done she dared not move. So she didn’t get up, but she heard his zipper, and had to look. Had to turn her head and see—then regretted almost immediately turning her head to look.

His cock was thick and hard and angry-looking. His face was flushed to match it. Veins stood out in his neck, and on his cock, and she saw so clearly how it was an extension of him, how he would use it to punish her as he had used his hand, and she wished with all her might that she had just dragged the bedsheet over her head and gone out as a purple ghost.

But it was too late for that.

“On your back, Jessica,” Dad said.

She rolled over, limp and unresisting.

“Lift your skirt,” he panted. He was breathing hard. His eyes were dark and glittering. He looked like he had that day in the yard, staring at her belly. Only now he looked _more_ like that. Like then he had been a photograph, a still image, and this version of him looking at her now was that photo made live and real.

She tried to think of something to make him happy.

“Do . . . do you want me to take off my dress?”

He considered the sight of her, flat on her back, breasts bared at the top of her dress, fuzzy dark vulva bared below, the rumpled blue and white gingham barely more than a wide belt between the twin poles of her feminine magnetism displayed for his use and pleasure.

“No,” he said, kneeling between her legs, lining his cock up against everything she had been dreading to know he would one day conquer. “This is all I need.”

The press of him on her, against her, was thick and blunt and dreadful. There was no way, she thought. No way he would fit. Even two fingers had barely managed to fit. It was simply impossible to imagine—

But her father didn’t seem to think it impossible. He _pushed_ and he _pressed_ and her pussy split before him, trusting in his mighty insistence that inside was where he belonged. And it didn’t _matter_ that it hurt, though it did. It didn’t _matter_ that she didn’t want it, though she didn’t. It mattered only that Dad wanted in, and her pussy was made to let him, and Jess, lying there, dazed, pinned, crying, understood what he had meant when he said this was what she was made for.

Because there was no way for her to resist, when her own pussy was so ready to take that cock at Dad’s insistence.

And it _was_ ready. That was the strangest part, somehow. That even as she cried and he levered up over her and drove it home, hips rutting into her, punishing and powerful, somehow it . . . wasn’t awful? That something she hated could also make her feel warm and tingly, the feeling of fullness coming not just as a violation but also as a kind of completion . . . what did that even mean?

She lay whimpering and immobile beneath him. She flinched at his thrusts, little squeaks forced out of her on the strength of each brutal exhalation, but did not scream. He was hot and heavy within her, battering, bruising, in the place where he belonged. She felt so _full_ of him. She hadn’t imagined ever feeling so full.

She looked up.

He was dark and angry above her. Powerful and looming and male.

She smiled timidly, hoping for some sign that he was still her dad in there, under it all, and he laughed, triumphant, bending to kiss her quivering bottom lip.

“ _There’s_ my girl!” he crowed. “Look at her, liking this. I knew you had it in you, Jess. Only takes one good fuck for most girls to know what they’re made for. All right, sweetheart, you want a good fucking? I can give you one. Here we go.”

Then he grabbed her hips, reared back, and hammered into her with such blinding force that the room went grey and fuzzy around the edges. She knew, fiercely, distantly, that she mustn’t scream. Whatever she did, she mustn’t, dared not . . .

Then he collapsed on top of her, pressing deep inside. Finding some spot within her that he must have been aiming for all along, as he swelled hot and hard within her, spurting, twitching, so she felt even fuller still. And there, in the core of the heat and the pain and the fullness of it all, she found something too. It built up around where he had invaded her, heavy and sweet, right in the part of her that was made to be used by him, and it broke over her in a low, rolling pulse of pleasure.

She blinked, startled, staring at the ceiling and the spots that danced in front of her eyes after holding in the scream. Her father pressed down on top of her, sweaty and sated, and kissed her neck, her collarbone, and the tip of each still-bared, aching breast.

“Mmm,” he groaned, deep in his throat. “That’s my good girl.”

She tried to smile at him, to show him she was okay and he mustn’t think she minded it too much, that she had even had a kind of treat of her own at the end, but he was already rolling off her, leaving her empty and aching and used. Something wet was down there, between her legs, but she didn’t quite have the nerve to reach down and touch it and see. Not yet.

So she laid still and quiet and a little frightened even now, newly a woman, not sure if it felt all that different really or only a little sore, and waited for him to speak.

He breathed, heavily. Sighed. Then said,

“Well . . . that’s one hour down.” One heavy hand reached over to grip her breast. He rolled the nipple thoughtfully between his forefinger and his thumb. “Let’s see what manner of devilment we can come up with for the next.”

And although Jessie’s costume had not been meant to come with a mask, she could not help but feel she had put one all the same when she looked up into his dark, demanding gaze and bravely managed to smile.


End file.
